


Partners

by pippen2112



Series: War Wounds [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-typical swearing, Emotional Constipation, Gen, M/M, Mercenaries, Not Your Typical Soulmates Universe, RvB season 14, Sam Ortez - Freeform, Soulmarks, isaac gates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8405002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: The Lozano Job goes poorly.  Astronomically so.-----A pair of mercs lick their wounds after the job goes sideways.***edit Feb 16, 2017 for formatting





	

**Author's Note:**

> This alternative universe hinges on soulmarks, names that appear on a person's body at various points in one's life. Some people have many names. Some have few. Some have none. It is commonly believed in the universe of this story that soulmarks are the names of your soulmate(s), but evidence is inconclusive.

**Partners**

The Lozano Job goes poorly.  Astronomically so.  Gates throws around the phrase "tits up" as Wu drives them back into the city, taking the pilfered limo to a fence of less than honorable repute.  They're still out weapons costs, and without a bounty or ransom they're looking at net losses on this job, but as of dawn, the city is down nineteen hired guns and two truly irredeemable excuses for human beings.  At least the next job they take, they'll have less competition.  That must be why Gates is grinning like a madman when Wu drops them off outside an ill-kept apartment building, one of Gates's many hidey holes around the city.  Either that or Gates has lost more blood than he let on.  Locus would find neither alternative shocking.

"Stairs," Gates mutters as he hangs on Locus's shoulder, hobbling up six stories.  "Fuckin' nuisance.  Seriously, who designs a building without an elevator these days?"

Locus throws a look over his shoulder, something dark enough to say "quit complaining" but not so grim as to say "one more word and I'll end your agony.  Happily."

"I mean, really."  Gates goes on.  "We were soldiers.  We survived the Great War.  Saw some messed up shit for our troubles.  And I'd still sell my soul back to the UNSC if it meant I never had to face another goddamn set of stairs."

If he hadn't been awake for most of the last twenty-eight hours, Locus would be fighting a grin.  Gates deserves a little misery now and again.  Best to remind him gently that he's not invincible.  "You chose this building," he points out.

Gates huffs.  "You really think I spend any significant time in this rat hole?  I have standards, Ortez.  I like windows.  And central air.  And the certainty my neighbors won't shank me for wearing a tie.  But no way in hell am I leading any potential tails back to my place.  If someone shoots up my big screen, I will take the sorry sucker apart by inches."

"The point stands."

"No one plans on stumbling home with a hole in their calf.  Still, live and learn."  But Gates's foot catches on a step, and he half trips up the stairs.  He sucks in a few sharp breaths, focusing hard on not screaming.  Instead he bites out, "Fuck you, stairs."

Locus sighs.  He's sore and needs at least four hours of rack time before he'll be fully capable of dealing with his partner's incessant bullshit.  And at this rate, he'll hit the morning rush hour on his way home.  He has neither time nor patience for the work crowd.  So in one move, Locus hauls Gates off the floor and over his shoulder, ignoring his own aches and Gates's startled squawk. 

"What the actual fuck, Ortez?"

"You're complaining?" he asks as he starts up the stairs.

For a few steps, he's met with silence before Gates smack him square on the spine.  "I hate you."

Locus rolls his eyes and chalks it up to another one of Gates's quirks.  At this point, he's come to take everything that comes out of his partner's mouth with a grain of salt.  It's part of their rapport. 

Gates keeps up a steady stream of quiet cursing as they make their ascent.  One or two of the more creative insults almost makes Locus grin.  Almost.  But he doesn't reward Gates's peculiar way with words.  Gates's ego needs a good stroking about as much as a frigate's hull needs a hairline fracture.  "You know," Gates babbles, "Wu would've left me some dignity.  Carried me bridal style, not all ape-like. Dude's evolved."

Locus doesn't protest that no, Wu would've left Gates to crawl up the stairs because Wu has a family to get home to; Wu has his priorities in order.  But saying as much would mean acknowledging his strange affinity for Gates, and he'd never him hear the end of it.  So Locus soldiers on.

By the time they reach the top landing, Gates is only idly beating his fist against Locus's side, his head thumping against the small of his back.  Locus rolls his shoulder, jostling Gates as though he were a lumpy sack of potatoes.  "Quit it."

"Jesus," Gates curses.  "How is your shoulder this bony?  You're built like a brick shithouse."

Instead of giving in to the urge to massage his temples and repeat a few calming phrases under his breath, Locus retaliates by dropping Gates on his ass.  Gates lets out an undignified yelp before he glowers up at Locus.  "You dropped me."

"And?"

He gestures to his left leg.  "I got shot."

"Well spotted."

Gates scoffs.  "Asshole."

"You've survived worse."  Locus quickly scans the hallway, ears peeled for the slightest sound, but the floor is quiet apart from a few muffled news feeds playing behind closed doors.  This side of town, anyone who isn't already at work won't be stirring until midday or later.  "Which door?"

Exhaling, Gates hangs his head between his shoulders.  "Gotta do everything myself."  With a wince, he pushes himself up to his feet and limps to the end of the hall.  He jimmies the handle--no key in sight--and stumbles inside. 

Locus doesn't remark on the irony of not locking his safe house while he's away, but once he follows Gates inside, he understands.  The apartment--if it can be conscionably called an "apartment"--is little more than four walls with a sink and toilet curtained off in one corner.  There's a dilapidated pull-out couch, a refrigerator that looks like it survived a few nuclear winters, and some half-broken shelves.  Nowhere for an assailant to hide, nothing of value for a thief to pilfer.  He's trekked to some pretty off-putting places in the course of his work, but Locus hasn't been anywhere this shitty since before he enlisted. 

Gates flops onto the pull-out mattress, the springs groaning under him.  He groans into the cushions, low and long.  "Owwwww."

Kicking the door closed behind him, Locus unbuttons and removed his jacket.  His skin prickles.  He wants to retreat to one of his own safe houses, take a hot shower, and sleep for days, but he's not one to leave a teammate incapacitated.  "Smells like piss."  He says, hanging his jacket on the doorknob.

"The entire building smells like piss," Gates grumbles, rolling onto his back with a grunt.  "They probably used piss in the mortar to save paying for bathrooms.  Hence why I didn't give a shit if this place goes up in smoke."  He thumbs open his fly.  "Grab the kit.  Under the sink."

 _At least he's not a complete moron._   Locus grabs the still-sealed first aid kit out of the disease-ridden excuse for a bathroom.  He returns to the couch to find Gates propping himself up on his uninjured leg and whispering a chorus of "fuckity fuckity fuck" as he tries to ease off his trousers.  Without a word, he grabs Gates's hips.  Gates goes rigid and chuckles uneasily.  "Woah, easy there, Mr. Grabby.  Not that kind of night.  Kinda got a crater in my leg."

"It's nearly eight in the morning."

"What, you never heard of a morning quickie?" 

Locus gives him a look but shifts his grip to the Gates's waistband and quickly eases the trousers down his partner's legs.  Gates helps prop himself up, only betraying his pain by the way his voice goes reedy as he keeps rambling.  "Not that I'd say 'no' really.  Been nursing a semi all night.  Damn, Blondie McClubgirl had a mouth on her.  Imagine what that tongue put to good use."

 _You should take your own advice.  Not like you've ever turned down a warm body._   But Locus doesn't say as much.  Instead, he tugs off Gates's pants and surveys the wound.  It's a through and through shot, bleeding freely but not gushing.  Looks clean which might be a small mercy.  Locus ignores how his chest eases, his breath coming a little easier.  He rips open the first aid kit.  No sutures or anesthetic, but a roll of gauze, a regen bandage, and some medical tape will do the trick. 

When Gates reaches for the supplies--eyes a little too wide and hands faintly trembling--Locus bats his hand away.  He mops up the worst of the blood and wraps the regen bandage around the wound.  He presses hard, feeling the bandage warm as the medicine takes effect. 

Gates clenches his jaw, not quite holding in a hiss.  "Tell me, Doc, am I gonna make it?"

"Don't be so dramatic."

"But that's part of my charm.  Melodrama and bitchy comments."

Locus counts backwards from one hundred in his head, his eyes trailing up Gates's leg, landing on a high on his thigh.  There's a ragged scar, a purpled ring of a poorly healed bullet wound.  His brow furrows.  He shouldn't be surprised by one scar; Gates went through a war, same as him, and he's only seen his partner out of armor a handful of times.  But what leaves his hands numb and his stomach fluttering isn't some old bullet wound; it's the fact that it bisects a scarred over soulmark. 

Again, he shouldn't be surprised; just because he's an anomaly doesn't mean others don't have marks tethering them to others.  It's just Gates struck him as the type to mask his marks with tattoos of his own choosing.  But there, inconspicuous and unobtrusive, are two simple letters bookending his bullet scar: "S" and "y."

For a millisecond, Locus's heart jumps up into his throat.  It's nothing.  It has to be nothing.  It could be nothing.  After all, how many names out there begin with "s" and end in "y?"  Hundreds, maybe.  Just because his childhood nickname fits the pattern doesn't mean anything.  He's hardly Gates's soulmate.  Besides, the mark has long since scarred.  If the mark meant Locus, it would still be dark and healthy as a fresh tattoo.  Still, he can't stop staring.  Can't stop wondering who Gates might love, who might love him in return.

As Locus tapes the regen bandage in place, he nudges the old wound.  "What happened here?"

Gates cranes his head down, eyes narrowing when he sees the scar.  His mouth puckers.  "Took some friendly fire on a flubbed op right after basic.  Gave the asshole responsible his due."

"Caught your mark."

For a moment, Gates's expression darkens, eyes tight, jaw clenched, ears faintly pink despite his blood loss.  Then, it's gone.  Face smooth, Gates reclines back and stares up at the ceiling, a perfect picture of ease were it not for his hands clenching against the mattress.  "Eh, no skin off my back," Gates says with purposeful nonchalance.  "Never put much stock in what others tried to make of me."

Still, if Locus hadn't seen the flash of too much emotion across his partner's visage, he might just believe that display of indifference.  The notion makes something in his chest wind tighter, something Locus won't ever name for fear of what it means.  Instead, his eyes flit back to the regen bandage and wishes the remaining forty-odd seconds would have the decency to run down promptly.

The mattress squeaks as Gates props himself up on his elbows, shifting to get a better look at him.  "What, you don't agree?  C'mon, Locs, it's not like you'd ever stand for anyone trying to hold you down."

Truth be told, he's right.  Locus has lived his entire life by that logic.  Never let anyone close.  Never let anyone own you.  But since his time with the UNSC, since he came back from the fight, he's watched bystanders living strange little lives, flitting into and out of each other's existence, casually owning one another, standing guard against more commonplace threats.  And the place in his chest hasn't stopped aching since he hung up his armor.  But no time to dwell on that now.  He'll think about all that nonsense some other time.

Quick as he can, Locus wraps a few strips of medical tape around the regen bandage, binding the patch in place so it will continue healing.  With each pass around Gates's leg, another inch of leg hair falls under the tape.  The vindictive part of Locus's soul cackles.  Gates is in for hell when it comes time to change the bandage. 

Right on cue, Gates hisses through his teeth, wincing even as the medicine does its work.  "Suddenly your whole twenty-four-seven armor kink seems a whole lot more reasonable."

Locus would roll his eyes if he weren't antsy without something covering his back.  "Not a kink."

"Tomato, tomahto."

At that, Locus shakes his head.  He clears away the first aid kit, returns it to the cabinet under the sink, and checks the fridge for some kind of refreshment for Gates.  There's a bottle of sports drink in the door, a noxious color he's only seen in smoke grenades, but it's still in date.  Gates will take whatever fluids he gets.  

Locus tosses the bottle on the bed and heads back toward the door.  His partner is stable; his work is done.  Maybe he can make it home before one of his elderly neighbors puts on a leisure feed at ninety decibels for the rest of the day.   He grabs his jacket just as he hears, "Hey Locs?"

Gates is still propped up on the pull-out couch, his brow tense and his fingers twitching against the blankets.  Under the dim fluorescent light, his partner looks pale and wan, like a shadow of himself spread too thin by reality.  Like a zombie.  A ghost.  But there's still fire in his eyes no matter the dark circles marring his face and the slump of his shoulders.  Locus can almost see the gears turning in his head.  "Yeah?"

Clenching his jaw for a microsecond, Gates angles his leg away from the door.  Away from prying eyes.  Away from Locus.  "You ever wonder if our marks make us weak?"

"I don't see how they correlate."

"I mean," Gates scrubs the back of his neck nervously.  "If you believe the stories, these names, these people, they're the ones who can make or break your existence.  They can shape you into someone else if you let them.  Do you think having marks makes us weak?" 

As Gates speaks, his hand shifts from his neck to the slope of his shoulder, resting protectively over the muscle.  Locus notes the motion but doesn't mention it.  Marks, Gates said.  Plural.  He must have another, some other fool's name branding him as though he were cattle.  Locus swallows to smother the fire scorching his gut, balls his fists underneath his coat where Gates can't see.  He knows what his partner wants to hear.  Gates is not a complicated man.  His motives are simple, rooted in power, fueled by resentment and anger.  And men like his partner would rather see themselves as gods than mortals. 

"If it interferes with the job," Locus says, "yes.  As you said, the soulmarks are another person's claim on you.  If someone can claim you, they can control you.  They can break you."

Gates nods slowly, mulling over the idea before his eyes flick to Locus.  "You got anyone aiming to break you?"

And for the first time in years, Locus feels self-conscious of his untainted flesh.  He turns back to the door and swings it open.  "Get some sleep, Gates."

Half a step out the door, his partner calls after him.  "Felix.  Call me Felix now."  Startled, Locus eyes his partner over his shoulder, one brow raised.  Gates gives an exaggerated eye roll.  "You were right, okay?  Codenames are smarter for our line of work.  After tonight, we're gonna need 'em more than ever, am I right?"

Locus doesn't respond.  He pulls the door closed behind him and flees like he wanted to from the beginning.  His trip home takes forty minutes longer than anticipated.  By the time he gets home, his skin tingles and his mind races.  Sleep won't come easily, but Locus lays in bed and forces his breathing to ease, stroking the patch of skin along his upper thigh, clean and unscarred and wretchedly empty. 

Sleep doesn't come easily, but eventually it comes, bringing with it flames and nightmares and loneliness that would break lesser men.  And Locus wakes, trembling and lonely and alive.  Blessedly, horribly alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions, comments, concerns, or constructive criticism are welcome! I'll be disappearing for a while. Hoping I can churn out a good chunk of this story (and others) during NaNoWriMo


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